Countdown
by altairattorney
Summary: How long does it take to change a life?


**Countdown**

 _How long does it take to change a life? **  
**_

* * *

 _four hours and thirty-seven minutes_

"They are twins, Mr. Pines! Cheeky little devils, both of them."  
"Um."  
"With all due respect, sir. If I were you, I would be proud of them. Twice the pain and the happiness."  
"We'll have to see about that."

* * *

 _seven words_

"Stan! Are you okay?"

It is the first time they hit him instead. To be fair, punching Big Bart first wasn't the greatest of Stan's ideas. In the end, Ford thinks, defending the six-fingered wimp brother is neither a new nor an important thing.

"Why not?"

The way he answers through his bloodied teeth, aged nine, makes Ford shiver. He has to drag Stan to the school nurse by force.

"But… but he hurt you! He is too strong! You really shouldn't have –"

"I don't care," Stan spits out. "You are more important."

* * *

 _two hours and one sentence_

"Can't you at least _try_ , for once?"

It's one of the heated discussions, the ones that rain down with the end of every semester. Stan is familiar with them. He just has to wait for the rage to cool down, that's all.

He has waited. And waited. And waited more. Not passing yet – it is a tougher tantrum than usual, isn't it, Pa?

"Because I can go with anything," he growls, "except with people who don't try _at all_."

Stan thinks of his whole life, and finds he sees it differently. He has projects. He has dreams he is never going to share with him. What would be the point?

He has them, though. He is working hard on them. And he snaps.

"What's so bad about my grades?" he howls. "You never gave a damn anyway! Not about me! So, as long as you don't, I don't give a damn either!"

"I know you don't, you loser," an ice-cold voice replies. "No need to tell me. It's a wonder your brother still bears with you at all. Because you know what? You are hopeless. You are never going to be like him."

Back in their room, Ford is still there. Patience, understanding glance and all.

Even so, something begins to break.

* * *

 _two seconds_

No kidding. Punching the wrong tables in a fit of rage is a bad, bad habit.

He won't find out until tomorrow, though.

* * *

 _one thought_

It dawns on him one winter morning, at five A.M, on the side of a solitary road in Colorado.

He has no idea what Ford is up to. Not that he doubts him. He just cannot rule out the chance – he might as well be in the same situation as him, penniless and without a purpose.

And in that case, he realizes as his teeth chatter, it would all be his fault.

* * *

 _three hours before dawn_

By the time the sun rises, the plan is ready. He doesn't lack alternatives – be it begging, stealing, cheating or gambling, there is nothing he isn't willing to do. He has already tried all that life can offer to a man with the worst of luck.

There is not much to think through. Stan will find the money for anything, even a damn ticket, if it means answering that postcard.

Hell or high water, he has somewhere he must go, at any cost.

* * *

 _thirty seconds to activation_

All he can understand is that they are fighting, and he is suffering in a way he no longer thought himself capable of. It takes him a while to process it won't be over soon.

It turns out to be one of those situations he can only watch go by, without the power to do anything.

There was no stopping it, Stan repeats to himself later, on and on into the evening. He must come to believe it.

Crying for the next five hours doesn't help, but it's all he can do.

* * *

 _one afternoon_

He connects the signs he can see in the mirror. In his hands, more money than the whole of his past earnings. His clothes, still dirty and torn.

Well, there is no point in money if you don't spend any of it.

His path showed up in the least expected of circumstances. It's a relief, after all he has lost, to have at least that.

Not all his life purposes must have a tragic nature, in the end. He was starting to doubt it.

* * *

 _fifteen minutes and a screwdriver_

The kid is adorable, he has to say. Chubby and peaceful, with a smile sweet enough to melt his wax statues. He doesn't really get what is happening, either – which is perfect for employers in a dire need of free labour.

He hesitantly asks if he will be a good enough en-pol-yee for the Shack.

"You'll do just fine, kid! See, the world of mystery around ya? A small signature, and you – yes, you! Little… Bruce?"  
"Soos!"  
"Soos! Anyway. You work here, and you can change its fate. For the better!"

It will go quite the other way around, but neither knows yet.

* * *

 _twenty-five seconds of airtime_

He couldn't quite believe it when the Gravity Falls Committee for Effective Tourist Traps gave him the chance to air a commercial.

There is still greasy hair wax caught in his head, but he cannot bother to care. He was even happy enough to use that horrifying tie he had forgotten in the drawer for years. Anything clean would work.

Young, faithful Soos stays over until it airs. They watch it from the tattered sofa, and laugh in joy.

Hundreds are watching. Who cares if it looks awful.

* * *

 _a meeting of thirteen seconds_

"This is not good. We need someone else to help us!"  
"But who, Stan?"  
"Someone… new! Charming! You, random pre-teen girl!"

Wendy turns to him, red hair still growing. She was passing there by chance, chasing a ball with her friend Robbie.

"What's the matter, old creep?"  
"Wanna work at the Mystery Shack? Work! It means… money! In a way."

She lights up.

"Money? Sure! Whatever."

And she may hate it, but she never leaves.

* * *

 _call: forty-two minutes, eight seconds_

"Nice of you to remember me every ten years or something, sweetie. The grumpy old uncle, alone in his shack. So… what is this favor about?"

A long talk follows, and he can barely find any words to say. When it is his turn to speak, he almost drops the phone horn. His hands are shaking.

"I… I have a niece and a nephew?"

* * *

 _eighteen minutes at the bus stop_

He draws little circles around the pole. Even in his youth, Stan could never stop walking when he was nervous.

It's family. Someone he never met before. He may not have a chance of making things right, but with them, if good luck smiles on him, he could be able to start something new.

Turns out he does not need to think it over too much. As soon as he lays his eyes on them, every single thing he could ever tell them springs to his mind.

They are unnaturally adorable. They are twins, and it shows too well.

He already loves them.

* * *

 _one evening stroll_

"And you, cutie, are?"  
"Mabel!"

Her voice is so thunderous, Lazy Susan cannot stop laughing. It reminds Stan of so many things.

"This is my dummy twin brother, Dipper!"  
"Hey!"  
"I love him. Everyone loves him. And you already know the town legend, right? He is my Grunkle! Grunkle Stan!"

Between concealing his tears, being able to speak again and acting rude, he lets five minutes of his time go by.

* * *

 _overhearing ten seconds_

"She is my friend!" Mabel sobs, telling Dipper all about a small moment of bitterness between her and Grenda. "She wouldn't keep anything from me. You wouldn't, right?"

He would not choose to stand behind their door like this, but something stops him right there. Long enough to hear.

"The people who love you never hide things from you."

It hurts too much to be a coincidence.

* * *

 _thirty years_

It all comes down to this day, at that specific hour. He must be there.

He has no idea what to expect. He has had nothing but hope, since the very start. He has to try, at least.

But they are here now. They are his responsibility, in a way he had not foreseen. And while he wouldn't have made it without them, they are involved in it with no return.

He is completely torn between what he wants. He wants him back, and he wants them safe. He wants everyone happy.

He has to admit their presence changed everything.

* * *

 _the last second_

"I trust you."

That was unexpected.

He had desperately hoped for it, but it doesn't mean a thing.

* * *

 _tomorrow_

What now? He cannot say.

What he knows – if he knows anything at all – is that nothing will ever be the same, for any of them.

Especially for the twins, a cruel part of his memory reminds him.

He cannot predict the future. Still, in a twisted, horrible way, he feels guilty.

* * *

 _Because, in the writers' opinion, Stan hasn't suffered enough yet, and I am a cruel person. A collection of sad and happy changes throughout his life, each marked by how long it took to make it happen. Special thanks to pengychan for the company, once more! 3_


End file.
